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The evening train brings two ladies, Valencia and Lucia. At the risk of her life, the poor faithful wife has come. A gentleman's carriage is waiting for them, though they have ordered none; and as they go through the station-room, a plain little well-dressed body comes humbly up to them "Are either of these ladies Mrs. Vavasour?" "Yes! I! I! is he alive?" gasps Lucia.
My salary was raised; but eventually I gave up the situation because my wife could never feel satisfied to have me perform night work after the fearful experience I have related. As to Frank, he is not backward with explosive English whenever the subject is mentioned, and no amount of persuasion could ever reconcile Cato to the station-room. A Cluster of Ripe Fruit
One day, as I was sitting before the samovár at a posting-station on the T highway, waiting for horses, I suddenly heard, under the open window of the station-room, a hoarse voice uttering in French: "Monsieur ... monsieur ... prenez pitié d'un pauvre gentilhomme ruiné!".... I raised my head and looked.... The kazák cap with the fur peeled off, the broken cartridge-pouches on the tattered Circassian coat, the dagger in a cracked sheath, the bloated but still rosy face, the dishevelled but still thick hair.... My God!
These were chiefly French Canadians of a rather low type. The engine-driver was a Frenchman too; but there was a brisk English-speaking man whose business it was to set the disordered telegraph system to rights. He came into the station-room to test its condition at this point of the route. As there was a stove in their car, only a few of the men straggled in after him.
Major Kinnaird was apparently counting the pile of baggage some little distance away, his wife and daughter were in the station-room, and Ida and Weston stood alone where the track came winding out of the misty pines. She glanced from him to the forest, and there was just a perceptible hint of regret in her voice.
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